


The church is his home.

by thundernlightning



Series: OC story snippets [1]
Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Original Work
Genre: Angst, Blood, Blood and Injury, Emotionally Repressed, Escape, Fighter/Sacrifice, Fights, Fire, Gen, Guilt, Hurt No Comfort, Identity Issues, Injury, Killing, Loss of Control, Loss of Faith, Loss of Identity, Loss of Trust, Minor Character Death, Murder, Not Beta Read, Permanent Injury, Regret, Religion, Religious Conflict, Religious Cults, Religious Guilt, Running Away, Survivor Guilt, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-29
Updated: 2020-08-29
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:54:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26171542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thundernlightning/pseuds/thundernlightning
Summary: Ever since he was born, the church had been his home.Since the times the pastors and preachers, the nuns and sisters guided him towards a life far better than one without the church, the church had been his home.The church is his home.But laying on the ground, screaming in pain as he clutched the side of his face as blood raced down his arm, that belief slowly started to dwindle over time.
Series: OC story snippets [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1900540
Kudos: 8





	The church is his home.

**Author's Note:**

> Tw // religious kind of content, graphic(?) Violence, multiple deaths, blood, injury, murder, child murder, manipulation(?), fire.
> 
> This story is also somewhat based inside of minecraft. Yeah, this is all happening in minecraft. Dont question it.
> 
> Apologoes for any innacuracies regarding the church people n stuff, ive never gone or been to one, legit just googled church people and did with that.
> 
> The main character for this particular fic is Kenneth, and during the start of this fic he is 13-14, but near the end hes around 17.
> 
> Also, in case someone worries, no, Kenneth doesnt die here. All deaths are background characters that dont even have names.

**The church is his home.**

With its walls looking over his shoulders, watching every move he makes to ensure the best actions are done within its confines, he praised the church.

With its many colourful stained windows looking out to the world he was not allowed to go out into, the sunlight peering in through them, leaving the walls and ground it landed on stained with colour, he praised the church

With its pastors and preachers, its nuns and holy overseers, Kenneth could say with utmost certainty that the church was where he belonged, that the church was his home and that it would always come before others, and even at times, himself.

**The church is his home**

When the walls confined him, taunting him that he'll never be able to see the world that was just outside of the creaky wooden doors, he praised the church.

When the priests and nuns condemned him for his sins, dunking him under for time that would span seconds to long, grueling minutes, leaving him shivering, sobbing, and wet on the cold tiled floor, he praised the church.

When the other kids that stayed at the church were slowly taken away as they got older, never to be heard from again, the nuns whispering prayers and begging the kids that still got to wake up in their beds each morning to do the same, he praises the church.

**The church is his home.**

He woke up too whispering voices, his eyes flickering to life before a hand wraps around his mouth, and an arm around his throat.

He goes back to sleep.

He woke up to a dark, cold, lonely room. Thats what they called it. They told him to be grateful, for others didn't even have a place to rest.

They took him out outside, somewhere he had never been before, and told him of a life he could have only ever visioned in his wildest dreams.

"Spend your time out here," They smiled down at him. "You get to go out whenever, to see the flowers and rest among the grassy knoll,"

He could hardly believe it.

"But, you must do something for us," The man— Father, he had asked Kenneth to call him— looked back out towards the horizon.

"What is it you ask of, Father?"

"You must fight,"

"Fight?"

"Come with me, Kenneth. You must see the chaos we hide from the church. What we protect you all from,"

He was pulled along into a building, then soon a wide open area in the middle of what he could only come up to call a theatre of sorts.

"You must fight here, to water the dirt we walk on with the blood of the enemies that come far from here, just to hurt the church,"

Father looked down at him, a desperate look in his eyes as he crouched down, holding onto Kenneth's shoulders as he spoke to him.

"You must fight for us, Kenneth,"

Kenneth felt valour as he listened to the desperate tone of the Father before him. He clenched his fists, his brows furrowing and his eyes growing hooded.

"I will do anything for the church, Father,"

He goes back to sleep that night, pain coursing through his veins and bruises painting his skin from the beatings he took from the burly men that Father had told him would help him become the best, to save the church.

After all, the church had always been before himself.

A little scratch would never hurt him if it was for the church, for they would mend him they would pray.

Father said they were praying for him.

He felt enlightened.

**The church is his home.**

Its been weeks, and he's broken his nose.

One of the men Father had brang in for him to practice with was too fast, and he broke his nose.

Father frowned at him, disappointment bleeding its way through his robes, and Kenneth couldn't stop the embarrassment and regret seep into his bones.

"You must do better, Kenneth,"

"I will, Father, I promise"

**The church is his home.**

It had been three months since he was asked to fight for the church, and they finally let him fight.

After 3 months of practice fights, successful trials and greuling mishaps, he was finally able to fight for the thing he loved most. 

He was walked to a small corner far from the room he lived in.

The men around him, helping him put on armour and equip him with weapons, told him that it was an arena.

The seats above the ground were like that so everyone could see properly what was happening, and that they were also up high to stop the fighters from trying to attack the crowd.

Kenneth thought that was odd at first. It must be the enemy fighters that do that, for whom from the church would throw such an honour away?

He gripped onto his sword tightly, the armour wrapped around his scrawny body loose in areas, but he knew the church would protect him.

As crowds outside cheered for him, Kenneth saw a glimpse of Father nodding to him. He nodded back.

He would win.

Stepping out into the arena, he looked up to see the empty seats he saw on his first day out of the church filled with people.

He couldn't tell who was for the church, or for the the enemies, but he knew that the ones that mattered were praying for him. 

Kenneth stood meters away from the gate he stepped out from, head twisting as he still stared up at the audience above him.

Then someone joined him.

He heard gate doors open, the squeak of them almost making him whince.

Then he saw them.

The enemy.

His opponent.

They looked older than him, but not old enough to be like the Father's in the church.

No beard, no visible wrinkles, no shaking in the limbs.

Kenneth watched as the enemy walked forward, an air of confidence sorrounding them as they smirked at the crowd around them.

They were tall, muscular, and even adorned black ink among their cheeks.

For a moment, Kenneth felt his hands tremble in fear, the grip on his sword loosen minutely.

But the church, his thoughts rang.

The church is counting on him.

So he fixed his grip, looking up at the enemy, snarling at him when they dared to laugh straight at his face.

When the yells happened, and the calls rang out in the arena, they both charged, Kenneth yelling with all his might as he brought his sword up, ready to fight for the church he loved.

It wasn't soon that he was laying on the floor, letting out a blood curdling scream as his hands dug into the skin on the left side of his face, sword long forgotten and wishing nothing more yhan to be rid of the bulky armour.

Blood dripped down his hands and onto the dirt below, painting it red, and for a moment, he wa reminded of the time the church let him and the other kids colour sand and make murals with it.

He saw the rivers of red that ran down his arm, pooling onto the ground where his elbow met dirt.

He heard the exclamations of surprise, anger, and victory.

He also heard the words Father yelled at him from above.

"You stupid boy!"

"How could you do this to the church?!"

"Was all this time just a waste to you?!"

They were not kind.

**The church is his home.**

Many months later since his first fight, and he had learnt much more.

He trained for hours every day, most training sessions stopped when he collapsed.

For a 14 year old, he had acquired quite a bit of muscle, enough to rival a good amount of new comer fighters.

He thought about the church daily.

He thought about the other Father's he missed, the nuns he wished he could still talk too, and the other kids he would play shadow puppets with.

It strengthened him

He was doing this for the church.

He stared down into the puddle of water, gazing at his reflection of which he could hardly recognise the person staring back at him.

He brought up his hand, letting his fingers lightly run over the scarred tissue that ran from above his brow, down to his jaw line.

For the church.

**The church is his home.**

For every persons blood he spilt on the arena ground, for every piece of flesh ripped from its person and each scratch, wound, and bruise plastered onto his skin, this was for the church.

He watched, as he was going back to his room, a girl that he recognised from the church was talking to Father. He felt the air leave his lungs.

Someone from the church.

Father caught him staring.

Later that night, Father came to his room, and told him he needed more people that were willing to fight for the church, that was why he was with the girl from the church.

Kenneth understood.

Father smiled down at him.

For the church.

**The church is his home.**

More bloodshed, more scars.

They littered his body.

He stared into the bowl of water handed to him while he lay on his bed.

He slowly moved the bowl, to watch his reflection in the water.

His scarred face. His scarred neck. His scarred shoulders. His scarred torso. His scarred arms. His scarred—

He stopped, bringing up the bowl to his mouth and drinking it.

Who even was the person that stared back at him?

_**The church is—** _

He stood there, sword in hand, staring at the young kid infront of him.

They cowered, the sword in their hands trembling in their grasp.

He had seen them before. He couldn't doubt it.

Those eyes, they were familiar.

He heard the yells aorund him get louder.

He watched as the young kid startes to cry, tears running down their face.

Something was thrown at him.

Somethibg pushed him.

The kid.

The kid infront of him.

He knew them.

The 7 year old kid who bothered him until he played tip with him.

He was 11 when he left the confides of the church.

He had been gone for how long? 2 years? Meaning that—

Another thing hit him, this time breaking him out of his thoughts, finally listening to what was being yelled at him.

"Just kill the damn kid already!"

"End it!"

"Get it over with!"

Kenneth looked around before staring back at the boy, helplessness washing over him.

"They're you're enemy, Kenneth!"

The kid cried.

"Come on, do it!"

He tightened his grip on his sword.

The kid cowered again, breaking into a sob.

Kenneth lifted up his sword to the sky.

The kid got down on their knees, hands clasped together as they prayed for help that would never come.

For a moment, Kenneth saw himself as that kid.

For a moment all time stopped.

He swung down the sword.

With a sickening scream and a crunch, the crowd erupted in cheers.

Blood pooled at his feet.

He cried.

_**The church—** _

Kenneth scrubbed himself of the dry blood that stained his skin.

He did not want to think about what happened earlier.

He wasn't sure if this was worth it for the church anymore.

_**The ch—** _

Kenneth stared out the barred window that was placed before the corridor that led to the arena.

He gazed outside.

He wondered if Father really meant what he said.

He watched as a butterfly fluttered past the bars.

He brought up his hand, fingers running over the scarred flesh on his face.

He wish he had been killed that day.

_**The church was his home.** _

He watched as the dead body of his opponent was dragged out from the arena, people leaving the seats above him. 

He felt a man walk pass him, patting him on the back, before picking up the weapons his enemy had dropped from his limp grasp.

Kenneth looked down at his hands, his sword clattering onto the ground.

It hit him.

This was all he knew.

The church had promised to teach him, to help him when time came for him to leave the church and start a life outside.

This wasn't what he pictured when he was young, stars in his eyes.

_**The church was his home.** _

Screams.

He remembered them all.

The fire engulfed his room just as he got out of it.

He ran.

He ran down corridors, hoping to find the way out, but even after four years stuck in these walls, the only route he knew was to the arena.

So he followed it.

He made his way to the arena, his eyes wide as he watched the flames climb the arenas walls and structure.

The flames licked the sky, dark smoke billowing upwards.

Kenneth tore his gaze away as he heard another scream.

He looked around, and for the first time in his years in the arena, he saw an escape.

He saw a gate leading to the outside world, its metal bars and design now melted by the flames.

He ran towards it.

He heard a yell.

He ran faster.

"Kenneth!"

Faster.

"Dont you dare!"

He was so close. So close to being free.

"What about the church?!"

He jumped over the flames that rested at the bottom of the gateway, landing outside of the arena

"Kenn—"

He didn't stop.

He kept running

He kept running until his legs couldnt carry him anymore.

He ran

_**The church was his home.** _

_**Now, it was only a monument for all his sins.** _

**Author's Note:**

> Edit 11/09/20: [Heres what Kenneth looks like :]](https://i.imgur.com/UMRwS0y.png)
> 
> And [heres the picrew I used!!](https://picrew.me/image_maker/163761)


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